The Vengeance of Rome (83 page)

I tried to console myself. My privations had changed my appearance considerably. I had lost weight. The shaving mirror had shown me gaunt, hollow-eyed and exhausted. Nobody, I told myself, could possibly know me now. But I certainly did not much look like a confident and prosperous citizen.

Using such a circuitous route, avoiding any street with a policeman or SS man in it, I did not reach the main railway station for some time. Slowly I formed a plan. I was not a wanted man in Italy. I must try to make it back to Rome. There I could either throw myself on the mercy of Signora Sarfatti or hope to explain myself to Il Duce. I was sure he would at least give me his protection if he heard what had happened to me. And if nothing else, I was in a position to let him know what was going on in Germany. Mussolini could be cruel to those he took against, but he could be generous even to his enemies.

On the great concourse I went straight to the foreign desk and purchased a ticket to Rome, via Innsbruck and Milan. The man at the desk seemed surprised but gave me no problem. He seemed nervous, even ill. I tried to chat to him. He would not reply. His eyes were everywhere but on his job. When I turned to find the appropriate platform, I was astonished. The station was teeming with black uniforms. The SS were out in strength, inspecting documents, searching no doubt for those who had escaped them the night before. My SA credentials were less than useless to me. The sooner I got rid of them, I thought, the better it would be.

I looked to see if the Rome Express was in. Then I realised it made no difference. I could not afford to be caught and have my bag searched. Even as I looked, more and more SS troops piled out of trucks and buses into the station. Children and women were as liable to receive their attention as adult men. Feeling strangely invisible, like a ghost, I quietly melted again into the busy backstreets. This was not the right time for me to leave the city, but I no longer knew what to do. I could not seek out Mrs Cornelius. She was already, by many accounts, in Berlin. She would help me. But how could I get to Berlin? There must be more than one SA man out there wearing civilian clothes and wondering how he could escape to his home town
or village. Anxious not to attract attention, I walked slowly back the way I had come. Every so often a car might slow down, and I even heard men cursing at me, but they had other prey that day and drove on.

Back at the Viktualienmarkt the sound of the barrel organ grew louder, reminding me that I might find help there. The warm bustle of the shoppers around me was a comfort. I saw no SS people, just the occasional ordinary Bavarian policeman, stolid, friendly and as reassuring as always. Here was the old, familiar Munich. Everything appeared exactly as it had been for centuries. Sure enough my friend Signor Frau was turning the crank of his organ, his son was rattling the box through the audience and little Zoyea was dancing like an angel along the kerb. If anything she was more beautiful. Tears welled in my eyes as I knew a tremendous surge of relief.

My bag at my feet, I stood on the edge of the pavement watching her. For three months she had been a memory, a fantasy. So powerful was the reality of her presence that I did not trust myself to approach her. For half an hour I stood there, hoping she would see me. I was now completely clean-shaven. Every so often her brother would come by with the wooden collecting box, and I would slip a coin in. He frowned at me once or twice but did not recognise me. It was not until Zoyea's eyes met mine that I knew she remembered. She paused in her steps and blinked. Yet almost immediately her expression hardened. No doubt she blamed me for abandoning her without a word. Perhaps she knew I had been in prison and suspected me of being a criminal. I had never found an opportunity to tell anyone what was happening to me. After all, I had left my flat thinking I would be away for an hour at most. She could not have known anything. Wishing to avoid any sort of scene, I ignored Zoyea and her brother and went up instead to her father, raising my hat.

‘Signor Frau? Do you remember me?'

The Italian recognised my voice first. His eyes widened in amazement as he recalled my face. ‘Herr Peters! We heard you had gone to Hamburg and returned to America! We were rather surprised.' He stopped himself. I think he was going to say that he would have expected me to let him know. Instead he asked, ‘Did you enjoy your visit?'

‘I was never there. I was abducted. Only today did I manage to get free. It's a long story, my friend. You must know I would have got word to you all if that were possible. I'll be glad to tell you everything, but at present I have nowhere to live. Perhaps you could see your way to letting me sleep in your organ shed for a while? A mattress on the floor is all I would need.'

‘You have money?' He felt in his pocket.

I raised my hand. ‘I have no money problems. But I do not want to stay in a hotel …'

He seemed to understand. Without another word he signalled to his daughter. She came over reluctantly, scowling at me. He told her to take me back to their house and not to ask questions. She was to show me his bed and allow me to rest there. He would be home at the usual time.

She objected. He refused to hear her. ‘I know you think Herr Peters has done you a wrong, Heckie, but I know he will explain himself. I want you to be a good Christian girl and do as I ask.'

She obeyed with poor grace. Lips pursed, eyes hard, she jerked her head for me to follow her and stamped off in the direction of their home. As we walked I talked to her. ‘I did not desert you, my dear, I promise you that. I had no chance to speak to you before I left.'

‘You could have written,' she said. ‘We had been due to go to the cinema. We missed a Tom Mix film. And a Ken Maynard.'

‘But the police arrested me,' I said.

Her eyes widened. ‘The real police? What had you done?'

‘Nothing, I promise. You know how confusing it is in Munich these days. Many innocent people are caught up in the troubles. A case of mistaken identity. Just like your family being mistaken for Jews. Do you know about this?'

‘You are a communist?'

‘I am innocent of everything. But they decided to arrest me, anyway.'

‘That's impossible,' she declared. ‘Nobody is arrested for doing nothing. Are you an enemy of the state?'

‘Of course not.'

She was unconvinced. As we walked, she fell silent, her brows drawn together. ‘A swindler?'

‘I am not a criminal. The authorities made a mistake.'

‘That's what the burglars say in the films,' she declared. ‘We used to laugh at them. I am innocent! I did nothing!'

‘But you have also seen the films where the man is innocent of murder and everyone declares him guilty,' I said. ‘Don't you remember the Masked Buckaroo story where I helped young Jane Gatling's fiancé prove his innocence? That's what happened to me.'

‘But you
are
the Masked Buckaroo!'

‘They refused to believe me.'

‘And they found out you were innocent?'

‘I was released this morning. I have been in the Stadelheim fortress!'

With deep concentration, she studied my face. At length she seemed satisfied. Suddenly her little hand had slipped into mine. She asked if I wanted to go to the pictures that evening. I smiled. If possible I would be glad to go. She told me disapprovingly it was almost impossible to see American cowboy films now. The cinemas were showing nothing but historical subjects. I asked if she had seen any Gloria Cornish movies, but she had not. She had seen Fräulein Cornish on the posters outside the cinema, however. She was specialising in musicals. ‘All these English actresses are singing nowadays.' What of my own films? I asked. She said there had been one or two ‘Winnetou' talkies, but they had not appeared in the big picture houses. The public didn't care for the new ones. She read the movie magazines. Musicals and historical films were all the rage. That's what were being made now. I should learn to sing, she suggested. Even in America the cowboys were all breaking into song. Gene Autry had thrown Tom Mix and Tim Holt into the shade. She seemed aware how my acting career, at least in Germany, was over. She might even have guessed I was lucky to be alive at all.

I could not tell her the SS were busy with their lists, arresting anyone suspected of being sympathetic to Röhm or Strasser. If I was on a list, I consoled myself, I was probably noted as having been arrested already. I now realise I actually attracted less attention than before the putsch. But prison had made me timid.

At last we reached the mews, arousing the curiosity of the few little children playing there. My Zoyea opened the door of their house. I quickly slipped inside. She took my bag upstairs, came down again and politely offered me a cup of coffee. With some relief I sank into Signor Frau's easy chair. Zoyea busied herself in the kitchen. When she returned with the coffee and a piece of cake, I told her as much as was wise about my wrongful arrest and imprisonment, my sudden release. There was still some danger of my being arrested again. I hoped it would be possible for me to sleep in their organ shed until the authorities stopped showing such a keen interest in the railway station. My plan was to get to Rome as soon as possible.

Zoyea agreed enthusiastically that Germany wasn't the same as it used to be. She herself hoped to go to Italy soon. Her father had talked of leaving. He thought life might be better for them in Spain. His cousin worked there and was full of praise for the new government. Here in Munich, she said, there were far too many gangs wandering the streets, attacking anyone they did not like. She herself had been insulted more than once, as had her father. As I knew, people called them Jews or worse. What had Italians had to do with killing Jesus? Surely Hitler must do something about all this. I agreed.
If he did not, he would soon lose the goodwill of the German people. At that moment, however, I did not know if Hitler were imprisoned, alive or dead.

‘But those SA were among the worst.' Zoyea doubtless repeated what she had heard in the market. ‘With them gone things will be better. Were you an SA, Herr Peters?'

How could I reply, having seen the murder of so many of our most disciplined and responsible SA at the hands of the SS? Was it only last night? I replied that the SS were no better. They merely had smarter uniforms.

Privately, I suspected Himmler would prove a snake in the grass. Even if Hitler survived he would have more to fear from Goebbels and Himmler than he ever had from Röhm. Röhm had put loyalty above everything else. I was sure Himmler planned to replace Hitler as Führer. I recalled the story of Macbeth, reflecting how applicable it was to the present situation. When you spilled your own people's blood in the name of your cause, you inevitably began the destruction of that cause. For every honest soul murdered in Stadelheim and Dachau, a high price would be paid.

Nowadays newspapers find it fashionable to emphasise the Jewish lives lost in the camps, but people seem to forget that thousands of Nazis died in them, too, not to mention millions of innocent Slavs. Once the camps were established, the path was determined; they had to be fed. In the end, as at the beginning, it scarcely mattered who went to feed the monster. The Jews, Gypsies and Slavs were the most easily available, but we should remember that many Americans also died in Dachau, together with Czechs, Austrians, Hungarians, French and Italians. Were these not equally innocent? The monster is not a gourmet. The monster does not care what blood type he drinks. The stronger the blood, the better. The more blood, the merrier. Blood is worth more by the pint than wine, yet he drinks it as his master's machines drink oil. He is voracious. And just as his master creates more machines to drink more oil, so he creates more machines which will drink blood.

How easily the human monster becomes an addict for money, power, oil or blood or all of those things! When will the day come when neither blood nor oil will be needed to fuel the ambitions of men? My machines would be powered by light. My cities would fly through the cold, pure ether. They would leave all those addictions behind them. They would be inviolable, incorruptible and eternal.

I did not get to the bed. Even as I chatted with Zoyea and sipped her delicious coffee, I fell into a deep sleep and did not wake up until twilight with a smiling Signor Frau and his somewhat unsmiling son standing over
me. Signor Frau had food waiting for me, a tender veal cutlet with new potatoes and green beans. He had cooked it for me himself. He was delighted by my praise. Once, he said, he had cooked in his uncle's restaurant. He was curious to learn what had happened to me but remarked that I must always remember he required no explanation from me. I had saved his living, he insisted, and that meant that he was for ever indebted to me.

I disagreed. I had done so little. Yet still he was firm. I would sleep in his bed tonight and then tomorrow. If I still needed shelter, he would see what he could do. I did not resist him. The luxury of clean sheets and a soft bed, together with the prospect of a breakfast as good as my supper, made me weaken. No sooner had I managed to reach his room, strip off my clothes and lie down, than I was asleep again.

I awoke after a bad dream, but I felt well rested. I heard sounds from below, and when I went down I found Signor Frau seated at the table reading a newspaper while his daughter prepared a breakfast of eggs and cheese. The smell of the coffee was enough for me to accept their invitation and join them. The boy had gone off to buy bread, said Signor Frau, and would be back soon.

I looked at the headlines. Hitler had clearly not been a victim. The newspaper was full of the plot against Hitler, foiled by Himmler and the SS. I had never seen so many lies published in such density. Röhm was described as a pervert and a glutton, who had plotted with exiled communists, Strasser and other traitors, both in and out of the Nazi Party, to assassinate Hitler and his closest allies and impose a reign of brute terror on the German people. This had been averted by some loyal SA men joining with the SS to nip the plot in the bud. The Führer had been disbelieving that so many could be disloyal, yet even now was considering clemency for Röhm. This was an obvious lie, of course. I guessed well enough what had happened to Röhm in Stadelheim. I shuddered to think what would have become of me had I remained so close to him. I would realise later how much my friend had protected me. When the lion is abroad, as Röhm often pointed out, the best place to hide is in his cage.